


Eat your heart out

by MeltingPenguins (lilmaibe)



Series: Everything you know is wrong [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilmaibe/pseuds/MeltingPenguins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Titusville, Pennsylvania. On their way back home, Sam and Dean stumble over a family with a problem gnawing on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“There’s nothing I can do for him.”  
The man hearing this was slumping down on the couch in the living room. It was the third time in just three months that he was hearing this news from the family’s doctor.  
He looked up at the older man.  
“Is it the same as with Maddy?”, he asked, voice trembling, face pale.  
The doctor nodded.  
“I’m sorry, Andrew.”  
In the room the doctor had just left a young man, maybe just a little younger than the one in the living room, laid in his bed, deadly pale and thin to the bones, breath shallow. He would not make it through the night.

At a gas station just a bit outside Erie, Pennsylvania, a bit after sunrise, Dean sat on the hood of the Impala, phone on his ear, while Sam was just coming back with some food.  
“Still the same?”, Sam asked.  
“It’s ringing now,” Dean responded.  
Sam quirked a brow.  
“Ringing ringing?”  
“Nasty-in-the-ear-ringing,” Dean clarified, putting the phone away. “That’s not good. The faster we’re back at the bunker, the better.”  
Sam had meanwhile stowed everything away and now looked at his brother, and nodded.  
“We’ll have to make a detour. They say the streets ‘round Cleveland are closed.”  
Dean frowned and slipped off the car.  
“Just great.”  
“It’s just about an hour if we go by Grove City on the 79.”

Two people stood outside a hotel, looking at the windows, before nodding at each other. There was determination written on their faces. But as they were about to enter, someone put a hand on their shoulders and they spun around.  
The man, tall, dark and remotely handsome, smiled at them. It was not a kind smile.  
“Oh no, you won’t,” he said and grabbed both by the ear. There was a flash of light and the man nodded satisfied as the two humans, formerly being unfairly used as vessels for ill-minded angels, slumped down. He dusted off his hands, looked around, before running into the hotel’s lobby, full panic mode, asking the woman behind the desk to call an ambulance for the two folks that had suddenly collapsed outside.  
A few floors above, Hael looked up from her book, as irritated by the sudden surge of energy nearby as she had been by hearing Castiel snoring a few hours ago. Well, almost as irritated.

It was now an hour later, at a small diner in Titusville.  
“Okay,” Dean grunted, digging a fork into his pie “How exactly did we miss Grove City by 50 miles?”  
“You tell me, you were driving,” Sam responded, watching Dean huff.  
“The signs said 99. 99, not 97. We were going the right way.”  
“Can’t really be, or we wouldn’t be 50 miles north-east from where we wanted to go.”  
Dean grunted again and munched on his dish as if it had personally offended him.  
“‘Tleast the pie’s good.”  
Sam grinned.  
“See, that’s something.”  
Dean shrugged, continued eating, watching the people in the diner and on the street, while Sam flipped through the book they had gotten from their latest case.  
“E.F.” Sam suddenly said, drawing at least a bit of Dean’s attention, who responded with a half-hearted ‘hmmph?’  
“Whoever wrote this had the initials E.F. Here.”  
Sam turned the book to show his brother the flourish signature on the first page.  
“Fancy,” was all Dean had to say on the matter, his gaze still on the people outside, his posture slumped and bored. That was until he suddenly shot up, eyes fixed on something outside.  
“Dude, he’s not going to…”  
Before Sam could even ask what was going on, Dean had stormed out of the diner and across the street, tackling a man who was just stepping out in front of a heavy, fast approaching truck.


	2. Chapter 1

There aren’t many things capable of making the world stop; making people around hold their breath, making time seemingly slow down. A man, early 30s, running out of a diner to tackle down some suicidal crazy, and managing, isn’t one of them. It just stops the traffic.  
Sam, who had run after his brother, stopped, turned, paid for their meal, then chased after Dean; by the time he reached the two, a crowd that had formed around them, making it even harder for the traffic to get going again.  
Ignoring the shouts from bystanders, Dean helped the man up, who looked at him in disbelief, before gritting his teeth and flailing at Dean.  
“Why did you help me?!”, at least the screech sounded like that. The man’s face was a mixture of white and red, all under a layer of cold sweat. “I don’t want this. I can’t do this. Not again. Not again. Why did you do that?!”  
Dean moved and dodged out of the way of the man’s hapless attacks.  
“Calm down, dude. Whoa! Fuck. Calm down!”  
That moment Sam arrived, pushing through the crowd and grabbing the man by his shoulders, just as that latter finally lost his energy and collapsed into a sobbing heap.  
“You okay?”, Sam asked Dean; his brother nodded, kneeling down to look at the man.  
“Hey, man, you ok too?”  
Before the man could answer, a woman’s voice called for someone named ‘Andrew’ from just up the road. The crowd parted, giving view to a blonde woman in her 40s, wearing an orange cardigan, a flowerprint dress and house slippers.  
She looked relieved upon seeing the man, rushing over and wrapping her arms around him, sobbing just as he did.  
“What were you thinking?” she sobbed, clutching his face, “That won’t make it better.” Then she turned and looked at Sam and Dean, thanking them.  
“Are you alright, ma’am?”, Sam asked, and the woman nodded, “We’ll be alright.”  
She got back onto her feet, helping the man up in the process, and they walked off, with her holding the man upright.  
“Not a way I’d like to start my day,” Dean commented, then looked at Sam, his face sobering. “Dead loved one?”  
“Dead loved one,” Sam nodded.  
“And not the only one, by the sound of it.”  
Again, Sam nodded. It was then, that a small black girl, about four, maybe five, dragging a woman about thirty behind her, approached the two.  
“Are you talking ‘bout uncle Andrew?”, the girl asked, earning a slightly confused look.  
“That man you saved. That’s my uncle Andrew. He’s mommy’s brother.”  
The woman holding the girl’s hand nodded a ‘hallo’ to Sam and Dean, and the girl continued.  
“We saw you save him and I wanted to say thank you.”  
Sam and Dean kneeled down.  
“That’s our job,” Dean smiled. “Saving people.”  
The girl gave him big smile.  
“Can you make the thing go away and stop hurting him?”, she asked, and her mother got irritated.  
“Emily!”  
The girl looked up, not taken aback, but more miffed at not being allowed to say anything.  
“What thing?”, Dean asked, nonetheless.  
Emily’s mother sighed heavily, answering for her daughter.  
“Emily thinks there must be a monster responsible for what’s happening to our family.”  
“Oh?”, asked Sam, making a face that Dean recognised as his brother mentally listing the usual suspects. He couldn’t blame him. He was doing the same.  
“I admit,” the woman said, “If monsters actually existed I’d prefer that explanation. Better than just being so rotten unfortunate,” she blushed rather ashamed and tried her best keeping her head up. “I guess that means Mark didn’t make it,” she tilted her head, smiling apologetically, “Look at me, bothering two complete strangers. I’m very sorry.”  
“Ma’am, there’s no need to be,” said Sam, standing up, “We’re very sorry for your loss.”  
“Thank you,” the woman sighed, giving a little smile. “Come, Emily. We should go to aunt Carol and uncle Andrew, I’m certain that will cheer them up a little.”  
As the two walked away, Sam and Dean looked at each other.  
“What do you think?”, Sam asked.  
“Guess Kevin has to do without us for a while.”

Abaddon had been on Earth for a long, long time. She had seen a lot. And she had plans. Well, had had. The current one, getting resurrected by a band of demons all too eager to follow her lead, went well to the point that she got resurrected.  
Then all hell broke loose. Or heaven, going by a demon’s point of view.  
She had never seen a hellhound that huge. Its snout alone had been twice her size, leathery, scaly skin stretching over a long skull that opened into a unfathomable maw with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth, fur as black as the darkest pits of hell itself seeming to bristle with electricity, two sets of burning red eyes glaring at her and the other demons as the creature suddenly burst into where they had just called Abaddon back into the living world. Gargantuan claws easily trashed the place, the hellhound ripping the demons out of their bodies and then apart.  
But it had spared Abaddon herself. It had just huffed at her and went away.  
She understood. It was a message. She wasn’t certain exactly what that messages was, but at least it a clear reason to change plans. Screw the Winchesters. It was much more interesting now to find and met the one that controlled that beast.

“Ah, got them,” Dean announced, looking up from the laptop. They had checked into a motel in town and while Sam was studying the diary, Dean was looking up everything that could help. Sam looked up from the book, shuffling over to the table. Dean had the webpage of a local newspaper open as well as a certain social network page.  
“Okay, the guy on the street was Andrew Willows,” he summarized, “He’s married to Carol Willows, two children. In the past three months they lost a brother and niece on Andrew’s side, and an aunt on Carol’s. And this ‘Mark’ must have been Carol’s brother,” Dean pointed. “This guy.”  
“A Marine.”  
“Yeah,” Dean said, sober and solemn, “Just came home after the birth of his daughter.”  
Sam looked at the pages.  
“Big family all together,” he commented, in the same tone as his brother.  
“Doesn’t mean it hurts less.”  
The short, but thoughtful reaction from Sam was a simple nod. Then both of them went silent for a moment.  
“So, what d’you think?”, Dean finally asked.  
“Let’s see… Lieutenant Raymond Willows, 49, found near dead after he went missing on a camping trip, died two days later at the hospital. Madeline Willows, 20, died after losing control of her car. Heather Conrad, 63, heart attack,” Sam shook his head and huffed. “Papers say tragic accidents.”  
Dean nodded, “No one’s that unlucky without a curse or being haunted.”  
“You’re thinking about the little girl, right?”  
Again Dean nodded, his chin resting in his hand in a thoughtful gesture.  
“Kids that age usually mean what they say with those things.”  
“Unless they’re us.”  
“We just learned to lie earlier than others, Sammy.”  
Silence fell again.  
“So, what do you think? Curse or someone sicking something on the Willows?”, asked Sam, and Dean closed the laptop, getting up.  
“Let’s find out.”  
For a moment Sam pondered.  
“Freelance reporters?”  
“Sounds good. Little tasteless, but should work. Hannigan and Brite?”  
“I take Brite.”  
“Grab your camera.”


	3. Chapter 2

“It’s embarrassing, really,” the man Dean had saved before, Andrew Willows, said, as they had sat down in the garden behind the house.  
People react in a wide variety of ways to losing a loved one. Some people want to be alone, others want to talk. Even if the ones they’re talking to are reporters that want to write a story about your family’s misfortune. At least those two looked trustworthy. Even if trustworthy in this case was synonymous with ‘untalented enough to not be able to get the story published’.  
“Your family has just lost someone, Sir,” said Dean, all polite, and Mr Willows sighed.  
“Still, I shouldn’t have done that. Carol and Sophie need me. But when they drove off with Mark it was just too much. Have you ever lost someone?”  
Neither Sam nor Dean answered. The man couldn’t even fathom that this would not be a simple ‘yes’, would either have told him the truth.  
“We buried three people in the last three months alone. Papers called it ‘tragic’ each time,” Andrew sneered and leaned back, crossing his arms. “That’s not even close.”  
“What would you call it?”, asked Sam, taking notes. Not really. In fact, right now he was making a list of things they could be dealing with, if these deaths actually had a supernatural connection. Maybe it was just one of the Fates going on a killing spree. Again. For whatever reason.  
“Cruel. That’s what I would call it.”  
“Understandable,” said Dean, folding his hands. “Mind telling us something about your brother-in-law? Why was he here instead of the hospital?”  
“They gave up on him at the hospital. Said there’s nothing they could do anymore. He then said he wanted to die at home and go the OK,” leaning forward again with a heavy sigh, Mr Willows went on, “He started to look better for a week or so, but then everything went to Hell. He’s a Marine, god damn it, he shouldn’t die from pneumonia.”  
“Pneumonia?”  
Andrew looked at Dean, shrugging in defeat and a bit of anger.  
“Yes,” he said, “Both lungs. Out of nowhere. And don’t you think he’d done anything to catch it.”  
“Not anything?”  
“What I said, Mr Hannigan, out of nowhere. ‘bout a week after we came back from Maine he got into hospital.”  
Sam and Dean exchanged looks. They had both done the same math.  
“Mr Willows, could you tell us a little more about your brother-in-law?”  
Mr Willows shrugged.  
“Mark’s been a mate. He and Raymond went to war together, and that’s how Carol and I met and got married nine years ago.”  
It was then when a female voice called from inside the house.  
“And there are Carol and Olivia,” Mr Willows smiled and got up.  
“We’ll be going then,” said Dean, standing up too. “Thank you for your time. Will it be okay if we come back to you if we have any further questions?”  
“No, that’s alright. It’s good being able to talk to someone about this.”

“Your call?”, Dean asked, the moment they were back at their motel.  
“Hex bags are an option, but we’d have to search the house for those,” Sam sat down on a small couch, grabbing the hunter’s diary. “Maybe it’s one of the Fates, though I have no clue what those people could have done to become the Fates’ target.”  
“Well, we have two marines. Maybe something ‘bout the war?”  
“Possible. But how do the two women fit into that? Unless they are genuine accidents.”  
“Renegade reaper?”  
“Same question as before, isn’t it?”  
Sam’s eyes were fixed on the pages.  
“I see you’ve got yourself a new favourite”, Dean teased, and Sam looked up.  
“It’s an amazing read. That E.F. was really dedicated, even though I don’t have any idea where they got some of their info from.”  
“Sam, focus.”  
“I am focusing. And as long as we can’t reach Kevin, this is possibly the best bit of help we can get.”  
Dean huffed and laid down on the bed.  
“Didn’t you say most of the stuff in there’s bullshit?”, he asked. Sam shrugged.  
“I’m starting to doubt that,” he turned a page, “Oh!”  
Dean sat up immediately, “What?”  
“E.F.’s got an entry on the Metatron.”  
“You’re shitting me.”  
“No, get this. ‘Metatron, the. Celestial scribe, Archangel. Entity combined of the primordial Metatron and the mortal scribe Enoch, an ancestor of Noah. (see ‘Book of Enoch’) Currently (1945) resides in Dover, Kent, South England. Has a liking for black pudding, winter warmers and toad-in-the-hole.’”  
“ _What_?”  
“That’s something with sausages they serve in England.”  
Dean shook his head.  
“Is that the same son of a bitch we’re dealing with?”  
“I doubt there’s more than one Metatron.”  
“Yeah, but ours spent years and years and years on North America.”  
“That’s the reason I read this to you. There’s something really wrong here.”  
“Tell me about it.”  
Sam shrugged in response and continued reading.  
“The description fits,” he said after a moment, knitting his brow  
“But?”  
“Listen to this. ‘I spoke with the celestial scribe and his companion today, and he informed me that they regularly come to Earth to oversee important events of mankind’s history that are close ahead.’”  
“And?”  
“Dean, the entry is marked September 1st. A day later World War 2 ended officially with Japan signing the surrender documents.”  
“Okay. That is an important event,” Dean paused, “What’s that about a companion?”  
Sam scanned the text.  
“Says here a woman in her fourties,”, he looked up, “Named ‘Atty’.”  
Dean rolled his eyes.  
“Don’t tell me ‘Atty’ as short for… what’s that Fate’s name again?”  
“Atropos. And yes, it looks like that.”  
“You’ve got to be kidding. Her?”  
Sam went silent, licking his lips in thought, flipping through the pages.  
“Yes.”   
“Wasn’t it her job to kill people? Not to… what do I know what you’d call her being around at the end of a war.”  
“Dean, I’m starting to think that something’s really wrong. And I don’t mean with this book.”  
“That E.F. was an idiot if he got so many things so wrong,” Dean grunted, throwing his hands up.  
“He was right about the muses,” his brother countered, and closed the book.  
“Yeah, that’s one out of… how many entries are in there?”  
“Dean,” Sam frowned.  
“What? What you read there makes it sound as if the bitch was not a coldhearted, selfrighteous Final Destination fangirl. And now she’s probably at it again.”  
“We don’t know that.”  
“Yeah, alright. But if we don’t find any bags in the house, my first vote’s on her.”  
It was then that Dean’s phone rang. All anger was gone and replaced with bewilderment and suspicion when he looked at the display.  
“What’s wrong?”, asked Sam.  
“Whoever that ‘Victor’ you mentioned is…”  
“Did not.”  
“Did too… He’s in my contacts.”  
“What?”  
Dean answered the call, nearly dropping the phone when he heard just who was calling.  
“ _Kevin_?”


	4. Chapter 3

Let’s go back a few minutes, and to the bunker.  
Kevin’s current state was somewhere between wanting to smack his head in with the tablet or eat it in frustration.  
He had no idea where Sam and Dean were now, and less of an idea what to do with the text before him. He frowned, resting his head on the table.  
Only to shoot up alarmed, glancing around. He was certain he had heard the bunker’s door creak open, followed by the steady sound of feet and a clacking sound.  
He fished for the closest weapon, a gargantuan grimoire, decided almost instantly to ditch it again, and shuffled out of the library.  
“Whoa!”, the man Kevin almost bumped into jumped back, raising his hands in defense. “Umm, Kevin Tran?”  
Kevin quirked a brow. The man before him was tall, with dark hair, not much lighter skin, a short, scruffy beard, and carrying a crutch.  
“What if I am?”  
“Well, you’re not a demon and I know it’s only you and a demon currently here.”  
“Wait, what? Who told… Who are you? And where are Sam and Dean?”  
“They’re on another hunt, I think,” the man smiled, a little awkward, but amiable, “Victor Kite, pleased to meet you. I ran into the two a few days back and they asked me to come here to assist you.”  
“Assist me?”  
Using the moment, Kevin did his thinking. Whoever the man was, he was in the bunker, and moving around freely. So, he had to A) know about here, B) have gotten access from Sam and Dean and C) was no demon.  
“You see,” the man explained, “I’ve spent quite some time with the things you’re doing, and…”  
“You’re not telling me you’re a prophet. They said there can be only one.”  
The man shrugged.  
“I’ve been out of everything for a few years.”  
“...Coma?”  
The man shrugged.  
Eyeing him again, Kevin finally reached out his hand and shook Victor’s.  
“Shall we have a look at what’s giving you trouble?”, Victor then asked, and Kevin waved him to follow him into the library.  
“This is it,” he said, pointing at the tablet. “Stupid thing is completely untranslatable.”  
“This is but some of Metatron’s drabbles, not the Voynich manuscript. That bloody thing is untranslatable.”  
Victor took off the navy blue trenchcoat he was wearing and sat down, gazing at the tablet for a bit.  
“Did Sam and Dean tell you what’s up?”, asked Kevin, sitting down too.  
“They did. Fallen angels, and you’re now looking for a way to reverse the spell,” then Victor looked around a little concerned.  
“What’s wrong?”  
“Dunno. It’s just…” Victor shook his head and looked back at the tablet, whistling through his teeth.  
“Don’t tell me you can read that easily,” Kevin huffed, leaning back.  
“Unfair advantage of having come across it before.”  
“What?”  
“I’ve seen some other inscriptions, not on tablets, but still, done like this in my time,” Victor let out a deep sigh, “Tell me, have you been feeling like you were going crazy lately?”  
“Lately? Try ‘past few months’.”  
“I meant especially since you started working on this bugger.”  
Kevin looked up.  
“Um, yes, actually.”  
Victor turned the tablet.  
“No surprise. This thing is a mess. I think you’re ought to rename it from ‘angel tablet’ to ‘fuck the prophet over tablet’. The only purpose of this is to drive the reader crazy.”  
“What?!”  
“That’s a lot of ‘whats’ in the past few minutes,” Victor blinked, earning a brief glare from Kevin. “Apologies. See this and this bit. Those make sense. This part here… says the spell is irreversible.”  
Kevin’s face fell.  
“Oh, oh, don’t worry,” Victor reassured, “It’s a trick. A nasty little trap. See, these parts are completely untranslatable. Even if you’d try everything. The parts you can read are there to have you keep trying, slowly but steadily rotting away your sanity. Frankly, you can very well claim the text reads ‘My hovercraft is full of eels’ and be correct.”  
Kevin gave him a blank stare.  
“I kid you not,” said Victor, and in response Kevin groaned, resting his forehead on the table.  
“That’s a bad joke, isn’t it?”  
“A trap, as said. It’s possible there’s a readable, helpful text underneath, but you have to disarm the trap first.”  
Another frown.  
“And how do we do that?”  
“Very good question. How much on that topic do you think is there in this hideout?”  
“There’s not even anything helpful on the tablets.”  
“Bugger,” Victor frowned, “I have the means to handle this at my home. Guess that’s the reason Dean said I should pick you up.”  
“Wha… Pardon?”  
Victor blinked. “I already thought they didn’t inform you,” he said. “Dean told me to come here, pick you up and get what’s needed to translate the tablet.”  
“Did he now?”  
Again Victor shrugged, pulling out his phone.  
“Call him and ask.”  
Kevin gingerly took the device, and dialed Dean’s number.  
/Who are you and how did you get this number?/, came Dean’s greeting.  
“Dean? It’s me.”  
By the sound that followed Dean had nearly dropped the phone.  
/ _Kevin_?/  
“Yes. Hey, there, um, there’s another prophet here. He’s called Victor Kite, he says. Says you sent him here.”  
The response was some mumbling for a bit. Dean must have covered the phone with his hand, while discussing things with Sam. When Dean finally continued the call again, he sounded a little confused.  
/He’s at the bunker, right?/  
“Yes. But he says we need to go to his home. Says he has something there to translate the tablet. Dean, did you know that thing’s mined?”  
/Mined?/  
“Trap to drive the reader crazy.”  
/Ouch. You gonna be ok?/  
“Think so. So, what should I do?”  
Again there was some mumbling.  
/Go with Victor. Translate the tablet and find a way to punt those winged dicks back to Heaven./  
“Alright. See you there then.”  
He ended the call, handing the phone back to its owner.  
“That’s settled then,” he said, and Victor nodded.  
“Wrap the tablet and get what you want to take with you,” he said and rose, “I’ll get some things I need to take from here. For later.”  
“Like what?”, Kevin asked, suspiciously.  
“Not much. Nothing important. But it could be helpful later on. Sam told me where to find it.”  
Kevin tilted his head. This man was odd. But Dean trusted him, even though he had sounded very, very confused. And apparently Sam trusted him to. And what he said about the tablet, taking into account the hammering headache Kevin was having, rang true as well.  
With a nod Kevin left to pack, while Victor strolled off, heading straight for the file room.  
“Back so soon,” Crowley called from where he was bound, hearing the steps outside. He did wonder, for the briefest of seconds, about the clacking sound, “Oh, you truly must have miss-” he cut off as the path into the dungeon was pushed open, eyes going wide as he saw the man before him. He had expected Sam or Dean. Even Kevin. But not...  
“...oh...”, he breathed, body tensing.  
Victor smiled.  
“Hello, Fergus.”


	5. Chapter 4

And now, back to the Winchesters.  
“Kevin?”  
Sam made a baffled face as his brother nearly dropped the phone in surprise over the caller. Inwardly; he’d probably have done the same. He signaled Dean if everything was alright, but Dean waved for him to wait, listening to Kevin. Then, lowering the phone and covering it with his hand, Dean looked at his brother for a moment, mouth moving wordlessly. Though it was not hard to guess that Dean was mouthing ‘son of a bitch’.  
“What?”, Sam asked, and Dean finally found his voice again.  
“Kevin says Victor’s a prophet.”  
“What?”  
“Beats me. Says he’s at the bunker.”  
“What?”  
“This is getting a bit too Pulp Fiction-y there, stop that.”  
Sam shook his head, gathering himself.  
“Kevin says that Victor’s at the bunker and that I sent him there.”  
“Wha…”, Sam stopped and rolled his eyes.  
“I don’t know,” Dean hissed back. “I didn’t send him there.”  
“But he’s in the bunker. How else could he have…”  
Dean rose a finger, cutting Sam off, and turning back to Kevin.  
“He’s at the bunker, right?”  
“Dean!”, Sam hissed, but once again his brother waved for him to wait.  
“Mined?”  
This earned Dean another confused look from Sam and he felt he was making the same expression at the moment.  
“Ouch. You gonna be ok?”, Dean continued, before covering the phone again, looking at Sam with a sombre expression.  
“Kevin says the tablet is a trap. To drive the prophet cuckoo.”  
Sam knitted his brows. “Would explain some things. Is Kevin ok?”  
Dean nodded, “But he says Victor wants him to come home with him. Says I said so.”  
“Well, did you?”  
“Not that I’d know.”  
“So what now?”  
“We can’t hand Kevin over to some weirdo.”  
Sam thought for a moment.  
“A weirdo that’s in the bunker, and knows stuff about the tablets we don’t. And who warned us about not calling the bunker.”  
“When?”  
“What do I know? But he must have done, right?”  
Dean rolled his eyes, thinking about the possibilities, before continuing the call.  
“Go with Victor. Translate the tablet and find a way to punt those winged dicks back to Heaven.”  
After that he hung up and turned back to Sam.  
“If this fucks up it’s your fault.”  
“My fault?” Sam protested.  
“You said to trust ‘Victor’.”  
“I just said…”, Sam frowned “Dean, we don’t even know where that ‘Victor’ lives.”  
“Few minutes from Forestburgh, New York.”  
Sam blinked.  
“What?”  
“What?”, Dean stopped, giving his brother a long, cool look, “I just said where he lives, didn’t I?”  
Sam nodded. Slowly. Not breaking eye-contact with his brother.  
“Okay, now it’s officially creepy,” said Dean, mimicking the nod and gaze.  
“Only now?”  
They both went silent.  
“Back to the case?” Sam then broke the silence that had started to hang in the room.  
“Back to the case.”  
Maybe a little too eagerly Sam grabbed the laptop, pulling up the local newspapers.  
“Dean?”, he asked after a moment.  
“Yeah?”  
“What are we even looking for?”  
Dean smacked his lips. He had to admit anything was currently better than trying to make sense of this ‘Victor’. Why could neither Sam nor he remember it? Why was that guy a prophet? Why did they let him into the bunker?  
Instead of giving Sam an answer, Dean huffed and stormed out, muttering about getting something to drink.  
Knowing it’d be pointless to even try and argue, Sam turned back to the computer, deciding to check for other odd happenstances in the area.

Far away, in their room, Castiel awoke, nearly tumbling out of the bed as his eyes focused on the figure sleeping in the other one.  
He collected himself, and carefully poked Hael’s shoulder. She opened an eye, looking up at him.  
“What are you doing in my bed?”, Castiel asked.  
“I wanted to try sleeping. I mean, I’d never slept before and you looked so peaceful.”  
“Humans often do that. Did it work?”  
Hael sat up.  
“I think I fell asleep. I saw odd things.”  
“You dreamed?”  
She nodded, adjusting her clothes.  
“Not too well, though.”  
“A nightmare?”, Castiel tilted his head and sat down crosslegged. He had never thought that angels could dream. Sure, he had experienced sleep himself, getting drunk and hungry as an angel, but he couldn’t remember ever having dreamed, left alone having a nightmare. Probably because he never had had a need for dreams. Neither the prophetic ones, as heaven could directly plant visions into his head, nor for those humans processed what they experienced throughout the day with. He drew a face at the last thought.  
“What’s wrong?”, Hael asked.  
“I realized I will be dreaming too, sooner or later, and I have seen a lot this brain needs to process.”  
“Oh.”  
Hael leaned over and gave his hand a sympathetic pat. Castiel looked down as she did so.  
“I should be the one patting your hand,” he said. “You are the one that had the bad dream.”  
Hael chuckled briefly.  
“Not so much a ‘bad dream’ as a weird one.”  
“Want to talk about it?”  
The response was a shrug.  
“I don’t know. You were there. And…”, she paused, “You killed me.”  
Castiel looked up at her, blinking.  
“Why did I do that?”  
“I don’t know,” Hael shivered briefly, “I think I wanted to kill you.”  
Seeing how miserable the angel was, Castiel sat down next to her, laying an arm around her shoulder.  
“Shh”, he said, “It was just a dream. Nothing real.”  
As Hael leaned against him and he patted her shoulder, Castiel couldn’t help but think of the odd feeling he’d been having for the past few days. The sense of all this being wrong. No, not wrong. Just ‘not right’. He tried to think of a comparison to the feeling. The best thing he could come up with was a cassette tape playing song different from those it should have been playing, according to its label. The songs were nice, just not those one expected.  
Castiel smiled a little, feeling a glimpse of pride over that comparison.  
Even though it also made him worry about Dean.

If he would have been with Dean right now, he would have known that those fears were baseless, as Dean was currently sitting outside a small store, making a face that would manage to turn milk sour.  
“Mr Hannigan?”, a voice called just as Dean was angrily chewing on a chocolate bar he’d gotten from the store behind him, making him choke for a moment, looking up. The mother of the girl from before stood there, waiting for his response.  
“Yes?”, Dean croaked, coughed and cleared his throat, and tried again, “Yes?”  
“Could I ask you something?”, the woman asked, looking at Dean a little suspicious. “What exactly is it you’re writing about?”


	6. Chapter 5

It took Dean a moment to process the question.   
“The tragedy of a family hit by misfortune,” he then said. And immediately thought he was sounding like some preacher on TV.  
“Guess that’s the heart and soul of being a journalist,” the woman said.  
“It’s a living.”  
The woman smiled at that and sat down next to Dean. She introduced herself as Olivia.  
“In the end it’s possibly a good thing you came around,” she said, watching the people on the other side of the street. “Our whole family’s been pretty shaken up by the last few months.”  
“Can imagine.”  
“Wouldn’t wish on you to actually know.”  
Dean went silent for a moment before wrapping up the chocolate bar and stuffing it into his pocket for later.  
“Guess the fact that it’s been accidents makes it all the worse,” he answered after a moment, and Olivia sighed.  
“Much worse,” she said, and rolled her eyes, “At least Susanna’s not here to witness that.”  
“Who’s Susanna?” Dean quirked a brow.  
Olivia blinked at him. “Did I say that out loud?”, she asks a little abashed.  
Dean nodded, and she sighed.  
“Oh dear. Well, she’s was Carol’s stepmother’s sister. She died three years ago,” Olivia gave an impressive shrug, giving Dean the idea the relationship hadn’t been that good.  
“You didn’t sit down for smalltalk, right?”, he then asked.  
Olivia grinned at him.  
“Just wanted to tell you not turn the events into some bullshit.”  
“Wouldn’t dare.”  
“Good.”  
As Olivia got up, Dean followed the lead, and cleared his throat.  
“If we’d have any more questions,” he said, “How can we…?”  
“Just ask Carol,” Olivia said, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Just not the next two days.”  
“Because of what happened?”  
“You already didn’t care about that,” Olivia rolled her eyes. “No, We’re heading down to Oil City this evening.”  
There was a certain tone in her voice that made Dean listen up.  
“Nothing you can cancel? I mean, someone just died and -”  
“And someone else is dying,” Olivia cut Dean off, sighing. “Carol’s uncle. She received the call a bit after you left. Things don’t look good since his stroke.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yes.”  
“Umm… All the best for you and your family then.”  
“Thank you. And you remember what I said about the story.”  
With that, Olivia left, and after a heavy sigh (after all, having a family suffer that much was a lot to swallow even for him), Dean buried his hands in his pockets and headed back to the motel.

Sam had his nose in the diary again when Dean returned.  
“Now it’s starting to be weird, Sammy,” he greeted his brother upon seeing Sam ike that.  
Looking up, Sam shrugged.  
“I’m looking for something” he said. “Book’s got maps.”  
“Maps?”  
Sam reached for a folded bit of parchment on the nightstand, opening it, revealing a map of North America.  
“There’s also one of Great Britain, Central Europe and a bit of India,” he explained.  
“That’s... awesome, but what am I looking at here?”  
Sam shrugged.  
“That’s what I’m trying to find. Hey, if E.F. thought whatever’s there is important enough to make a map, we should try and find just what it is. And this diary’s longer than it appears...”  
“That will have to wait,” Dean announced, “The Willows are leaving this evening, so we could search their house tonight.”  
Sam looked up and closed the book.  
“How do you know?”  
“Ran into the little girl’s mother on my walk. She mentioned it,” he sat down at the table, frowning, “Did you know they’re in for yet another funeral?”  
“What?”  
“Mrs Willow’s uncle is dying.”  
“No,” Sam shook his head in disbelief.  
“That’s what Olivia said.”  
“Olivia’s the girl’s mother?”  
“Yes. Guess she needed to talk about that stuff.”  
“So, we’re going to break into their home while they’re at someone’s deathbed?”  
“Has that ever really stopped us?”  
Sam frowned in response.  
“And hey,” Dean said, “We’re doing them a favour. Find the hex bags, find who placed them there and give them what they’ve got coming.”  
Sam just huffed, drawing his brother’s attention.  
“What’s wrong, Sammy?”, Dean asked.  
“Take a guess. The thing with Kevin, and Victor, and all that.”  
Dean’s face fell.  
“I know what you mean,” he said, leaning back in the chair and staring up at the ceiling, “Worse yet, still no word from Cas.”  
“Think he’ll be alright?”  
Dean sighed, pressing his lips together.  
“We haven’t heard from him yet,” he then said, leaning onto the table, before fishing for his phone, staring at it as if he was expecting it to ring.  
It rang indeed.  
And Dean dropped it in surprise, earning him a disbelieving smile from his brother.

“How come you didn’t hear it?”, Hael asked, looking over at Castiel. After she had told Castiel about her dream, they had decided to watch a bit of TV (finding a channel showing ‘Life of Brian’, to which they both had to admit was funny and more accurate than some other movies on the matter), and somehow their talks had gotten onto the topic of angel radio (because Hael had said ‘so that’s where that song’s from’). Only then did they realise that Castiel, oddly and suddenly, had lost the ability to tune in. Days back already, as it appeared.  
“I really wish I knew,” Castiel answered. “I was certain I could still hear it when the Metatron took my grace and sent me to Earth. But now…”, he tilted his head, looking at thin air for a moment. “No, nothing.”  
“Odd,” Hael said, mirroring his move. But then she sat up, knitting her brows, making Castiel sit up equally alarmed.  
“What’s wrong?”, he asked.  
“I… I’ve tuned out too…”, there was more plain confusion in Hael’s voice than actual panic, and she shook her head. “But…”  
“That shouldn’t happen.”  
“Yes. No. That’s not what I meant. It’s… It…”, she looked at Castiel with wide eyes. “It feels right.”  
They looked at each other, before Castiel reached for the phone.  
“What are you doing?”, Hael asked.  
“I’m calling Dean. If there’s someone who can find answers, it’s him,” Castiel grinned, “You have to give him that.”  
As Castiel dialed Dean’s number, Hael smiled back. The same way Sam was currently smiling at Dean many, many miles away as Dean dropped his ringing phone.


	7. Chapter 6

Two men were sitting in a small café somewhere in Europe. Probably Europe, and if so, then likely France or Germany. Maybe England. There were lilacs blooming.   
One of those men was not even a man as such. Not that any of the people passing by would have known. They might one day be in for an odd sensation of deja vu, however.  
In any case, Death leaned back in his chair, eyeing the man before him sipping coffee.  
“I must admit, I am surprised by what you did,” he said. “And I’m not easily surprised.”  
“Oh, don’t I know?” the man answered. He was tall, remotely handsome, with dark skin and hair. “When was the last time anyone managed to truly surprise you?”  
Death shrugged. “When God went on that little journey.”  
“Name one being in existence that wasn’t surprised by that.”  
“Those that have no idea of it.”  
“Touché,” the man put his cup down and looked around.  
“So, you are going to send...”  
“No, no,” the man shook his head, “First things first. No use to do that yet.”  
“Too high a chance of a big reset?”  
“Yes. Would only be additional work for you.”  
“I have ‘Reapers’ now.”  
The man rolled his eyes.  
“Those silly little humans with their silly narrow minds,” he said.  
“And yet you’re equally trying to help them as you are in need of their help,” Death smiled and rose. “Now, if you excuse me, work awaits. And shouldn’t you be elsewhere, too?”  
The man quirked a brow:  
“You’re the one that interrupted me from what I was doing.”  
“Can you blame me, you were the one…”  
“You know they’ll be just echoes now. So, mind if I hitch a ride? Not really the best idea to hop around on my own in this situation.”  
“Be my guest.”  
And they were gone, unnoticed by the passers-by, leaving another guest in the café, who hadn’t even realised they were there, to tell the truth, to pay the bill for all of them.

Dean cursed under his breath, scrambling for his phone, answering the call on the last ring.  
“Hello?”  
/Dean?/  
“Cas? Bloody… Where are you?”  
/We are currently staying at a hotel in Sidney./  
“What the hell are you doing in Australia?”  
A few metres to the right Sam was making a face hearing that.  
/Sidney in Nebraska./  
“Oh,” Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, while Cas continued.  
/Neither of us has wings anymore./  
“Wait, what? And what do you mean ‘us’?”  
/The Metatron tricked me, Dean. It wasn’t a trial. It was a spell. He cast all angels out of Heaven. He stole my grace. I am human, Dean./  
“That…”, Dean stopped himself. ‘Son of a bitch’ just wasn’t the right term for the Metatron here. “You’re alright?”  
/Yes. The angel Hael is here with me./  
“Is he one of the good guys?”  
/She. Currently. And yes. She is./  
Dean went silent.  
/Dean?/  
“This gonna sound weird, but… I knew that that stuff happened to you. That thing with your grace, that you’re human. The stuff with the Metatron.”  
/...How?/  
“Hell if I know.”  
/Dean? Are you alright?/  
“Yeah. Just weirded out, buddy. Not the first time the past week.”  
/Are you certain everything’s alright?/  
“You tell me. Hey, we’re currently in Pennsylvania. You stay where you are, okay?”  
/We could come to the bunker./  
“No, Cas. Listen. Stay away from there. You hear me? You keep an eye on yourself and stay where you are, comprende?”  
There was a sigh.  
/Comprende. If it becomes unavoidable to move, I shall contact you again./  
“Alright. Take care.”  
/You too./  
Dean hung up, sighing, and combing his fingers through his hair, frowning.  
“Where do you want Cas to stay away from?”, Sam asked, and Dean looked up, not answering for a moment.  
“The bunker,” he then admitted.  
“Why?” Sam shook his head, to which Dean arched a brow.  
“Hey, after what happened the last few days, and with the call from Kevin, I…” Dean took a deep breath, “It felt wrong, okay? Just so damned wrong to have him go there. I can’t explain it, okay?”  
With a frown Sam raised his hands defensively.  
“Man, calm down,” he said, and stood up. “I’ll go and get us something to eat, and then we can see if we can find anything about those numbers before we go searching for the hex bag, ok?”  
Not that Sam waited for an answer. He was out of the room even before his sentence was finished.  
Dean, in frustration, slammed his fist onto the table, making a face indicating that there’d been a bit too much force behind that the very next second.

“Okay, I got everything,” Kevin called stepping into the main hall of the bunker. Victor was sitting on the steps, idly reading something on his tablet.  
“There you are,” said Kevin, finally making Victor look up. “Been looking for you.”  
“Oh, and I’ve been looking for you,” smiled an apologising smile and put his tablet back into his bag. “This place is bigger than it appears. Guess we managed to be looking for each other on opposite ends for each other. So, you’re ready?”  
Kevin nodded, but then frowned.  
“I forgot to ask Dean when they’ll join us.”  
Victor cocked his head, “Well, he has my number. I’m certain he’ll call when they’re on their way.”  
A few minutes later they were leaving the bunker.  
There was folk rock playing, and Kevin was more or less burrowing himself into the fake-fur cover over the passenger’s seat.  
“How did you become a prophet?”, he asked somewhere near Hastings, Nebraska.  
Victor shrugged.  
“It just happened,” he said. “Had contact with Heaven, even though I didn’t want to, and bam, I’m out to save the arses of two lads from Kansas. And you? Dean didn’t tell me that much about you. Sam said you were in advanced placement.”  
Kevin shrugged as well.  
“Yes. Then Sam and Dean found a tablet that gave instructions on how to kill some monsters named Leviathans and, well, bam, I’m also out to save their butts.”  
“Leviathan?”  
“Leviathans, plural.”  
“Nice one. But what did you need a special tablet for? The Leviathan was slain by the Archangel Gabriel, so go find his sword or spear and the problem should be non-existent.”  
“I think Gabriel’s dead. Sam once mentioned he died when they stopped the Apocalypse a few years back.”  
“Oh, that one,” Victor seemed unimpressed. “Tell you what. Archangels don’t die. Neither do other angels or demons. That’s the whole idea behind being immortal. The old bugger’s around, I bet you. And if not, he’s probably regenerating somewhere.”  
Kevin gave him a rather weirded out look.  
“Tell you what,” Victor said, “You can consider yourself lucky to be a reader, prophet-skill-wise. I got a crapload of knowledge about Heaven and Hell. And the reading thing. No wonder the _coma_ happened.”  
Now Kevin gave him a sympathetic look.  
“You don’t have it better,” Victor mentioned, after smiling back softly. “Dean said they’ve been telling you they got your mother.”  
Kevin’s face fell, but Victor grinned.  
“They’re lying. 100% certain, they’re lying.”  
“How would you know?”  
“Told you, knowledge of Heaven and Hell. All that stuff Dante and Milton didn’t manage to cover. Here’s the deal. If demons actually have someone or something to blackmail a person with, they will briefly skip with said person to Hell and show them what’s fact and what isn’t. Did they do that?”  
“No.”  
“See. So, going by what Sam and Dean said ‘bout your mom, if a demon actually got their hands on her, 100% certain she handed their butts to them and walked out.”  
A grin spread on Kevin’s face for a second, before it fell again.  
“But why didn’t she call me then?”  
“Easy. Even though they can’t get your mom herself, they can still make contact impossible. Hey, they need to pretend they got her.”  
Kevin was, to put it mildly, bemused. Then a thought struck him.  
“Erm…”  
“Yes?”  
“Did they tell you we had the demon that claimed to…”  
Victor smiled and pointed at his bag that laid at Kevin’s feet.  
“The snowglobe.”  
“What?”  
Instinctively, however, Kevin picked up the bag and pulled a small snowglobe from it. The confused impression already on his face rose several levels in bafflement.  
“But that’s…”  
“Couldn’t leave Fergus behind, after all.”  
“Fer… you mean Crowley.”  
Victor shrugged.  
“Fergus’ his real name. Suits him much better than ‘Crowley’. If you ask me, he’s not much of a Crowley. Dean’s more of a Crowley than him.”  
Kevin let that sink in, still staring at the tiny, unheard, and obviously frustrated figure in the small globe.  
“How did you get him in there?”, he then asked and Victor laughed.  
“There are some nifty tricks that come with knowing things about Heaven and Hell.”  
Thinking about this, Kevin finally nodded, before looking at Victor again.  
“What happens if I shake it?”


	8. Chapter 7

It was midnight when Sam and Dean arrived at the Willows’ house.  
“So we’re clear?” Dean grumbled, looking up at the dark windows, “We go in, stop this, head to the bunker, get our stuff, go to Victor and see what all this is about.”  
“Dean, that’s the fifth time you’ve ask if I got it,” Sam grunted and stepped out of the car, “Calm down.”  
With a deep, grumbling frown Dean followed.  
“Oh, excuse me for worrying a little bit about the things that happened since last Tuesday,” he sneered, getting closer to the house after casting some quick glances around. “I mean, hey, it’s just your sudden recovery along with jumping locations, Cas being human, Kevin being tricked, this Victor showing up and…”  
Sam suddenly grabbed his brother’s shoulder and made a hushing gesture, before pointing up.  
“Someone’s in there,” he said.  
The two stared up at the window behind which they had just seen a light, before they exchanged looks.  
“Are you pondering what I’m pondering, Sammy?”  
Sam nodded.  
“Either an actual burglar or just the guy we’re looking for.”  
“Yeah. Come on.”  
They went around back and climbed into the garden, sneaking towards the, as they now expected, open backdoor, shuffling into the house.  
Whoever the third person was, they were carrying a bag and a flashlight, and, as Sam and Dean found them sneaking around in the parent’s room, messing with the photographs on the nightstands.  
Sam and Dean leaned in the door as the intruder fumbled one of the pictures out of its frame, and Dean cleared his throat.  
The man, as it then became apparent, spun around, dropped the picture, raised his flashlight like a weapon and charged at the two, obviously certain that his bulky frame gave him an advantage.  
There was a crash and a thud and a yelp, and the man was down, Dean kneeling on his back and twisting his arm, while Sam wandered off, phone on his ear.  
“Okay, man, who are you?”, Dean asked, managing to transport his glare in his voice.  
“None of your business.”  
Dean pressed his knee down, and the man yelped again.  
“I know that this isn’t your house. So what are you doing here?”  
“I’m just getting what’s mine!”, the man hollered, and Dean pressed his knee down again.  
“At midnight. When no one’s at home. Suuuure,” he said as the man gave a yelp. “Okay, dude, once more. Who are you?”  
“Could ask you the same. You’re not cops.”  
“We’re concerned citizens that saw you sneaking around someone else’s house,” Dean hissed, getting angry. In fact, the man’s behaviour was just adding to his already existing frustration with the general situation of the past week.  
“Police is on the way,” Sam then interrupted, pocketing his mobile and picking up the bag the man had dropped.  
“Get your hands off that!” the man snarled again, earning another well-applied press against the arm from Dean.  
Sam rummaged through the bag, picking out some old books and a bit of jewellery.  
Dean frowned at the man.  
“How exactly is that ‘your’s’, dude?”  
“They should have never gotten it. They did some of their voodoo-shit on Camille.”  
“What?”, Dean frowned and made a face clearly indicating that he was getting absolutely tired of this man and whatever he had to say.  
It was a good thing, maybe for Dean, maybe even more so for the man, that the police arrived that moment.  
A few minutes later, as the man was driven off, Sam and Dean explained their version of the story to the officer.  
“So you’re reporters?”, said officer asked, after the two had introduced themselves. As Hannigan and Brite, that is.  
“Yeah,” said Sam, with a bit of an awkward grin. “You see, Officer, we had been talking to Mr and Mrs Willows this morning, and we learned they would not be at home tonight. So, when we were heading off to the next city to work on our stories, and saw a light in the window, we didn’t think much and went to see what was wrong.”  
“We know we should have contacted you before acting,” Dean added, looking as innocent as his brother, and sounding just as stilted.  
“Yes, you should have,” said the officer, shaking his head. “We’re not on TV, acting like heroes won’t turn out good for you if you don’t know what you’re doing.”  
The officer turned his attention away from Sam and Dean (after those two had nodded in total agreement) and towards the direction they had taken the burglar, and where two of his colleagues were talking.  
“Now, I must ask you to stay in the city, should further questions arise,” he then mumbled, and after agreeing and giving the name of their hotel, Sam and Dean trotted back to the Impala.  
With all the police around, searching the house was all but impossible.  
“And what now?”, asked Sam, frowning, “Come back when they’re gone?”  
“Small town,” answered Dean, starting the engine “The neighbours will be worse than hellhounds out to drag some poor bastard to hell now. Not a chance.”  
“Back to the motel then?”  
“Yeah,” Dean mumbled, driving off.

“At least we know who’s behind this.”  
It was now only a bit later. The boys were back at their room, Sam sitting on the bed, reading the journal again, while Dean had, only moments ago, booted up the laptop and was staring at the screen now. The ‘uh-huh’ he gave in response to Sam’s statement made it clear that he was concentrating on whatever he was looking at.  
“Dean?”  
Dean looked up and waved Sam over.  
“We know exactly who’s behind this,” he said, a little triumphantly.  
“Who?”  
Dean pointed at the screen.  
“Remember how that guy said something ‘bout ‘Camille’? Camille Parks was Mrs Willow’s stepmother. Died about two years ago. Pneumonia.”  
Sam sat down, knitting his brows.  
“That family _is_ unlucky,” he said. “Now you think it’s her ghost?”  
“Naw. Not with that guy saying ‘they did some voodoo on her’. We’ve seen some summonings go wrong, but, man, this is just some racist bullshit, I tell you.”  
“You sound as if you’re certain.”  
“I am. That guy is Greg Bagley, Mrs Willow’s step-cousin.”  
“And?”  
“Olivia mentioned his mother, and how it’s good she’s not around anymore to see the Willows like that. Said she died three years back. Did a bit of research on them.”  
He brought up an article.  
“Bagley’s family’s trying to sue the Willows and the rest of Camille’s new family for the past five years.”  
“Over what?”  
Dean pointed, and Sam looked.  
“They think the Willows brainwashed Camille into changing her testament?”  
“With ‘voodoo’. Article’s not giving what they said, so I think whatever they told the paper contained lots of words starting with ‘N’.”  
Sam frowned and rubbed his face.  
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.  
“Yep.”  
“And now that guy cooked up some spells himself to get at them?”  
“Just what I’ve been thinking.”  
Again Sam frowned, at a loss for words.  
“So, screw not getting back there and go back for the bags?”, he finally asked.  
“Yeah.”


	9. Chapter 8

“It’s very funny. And very intelligent,” Castiel stated, earning a chuckle from Hael, who was reclining on the other bed.  
“You only notice that now?” she teased. Castiel smiled and closed the book Hael had given him to read.  
“But odd to think that…” he didn’t get further. There was a knock from the door, and Castiel rose to see who it is, but Hael pulled him back down.  
“You’re human,” she whispered. “And it’s past midnight. Let me handle this, just in case.”  
She got up, took a deep breath and walked over to the door.  
“Yes?”, she asked, without opening.  
There was a moment of quiet, before the door was forced open, causing Hael to stagger back, and forcing Castiel to dive behind the bed.  
A man stood in the doorframe, looking very angry. He glared at Hael, who was scrambling to stand up-right again.  
“What’s that all about?”, the man barked, pointing at Castiel.  
“That’s none of your business,” Hael barked back.  
“It’s his fault we fell.”  
“No, it’s the Metatron’s,” Hael hissed, only now noticing she had positioned herself between Castiel and the other angel.  
From outside there was the sound of other rooms being opened.  
“Did he tell you that?”, the man said pointing. “You stupid little thing. You’re going down with him then.” If it had needed any more confirmation that the other man was an angel, him summoning up his blade provided that the very next moment.  
“Hael, watch out!”  
Castiel didn’t know why exactly he had shouted that. It felt a little silly, seeing that Hael was perfectly aware of the other angel coming at her.  
Hael dodged away at first, making a motion to bring up her own blade, but the other angel was fast. He spun around, driving his blade straight into her body. Hael let out a brief gasp, and then...  
Silence fell. It fell awkwardly, and Hael looked down at the angel blade in her stomach, then up at the one who had just stabbed her. He was, obviously just as confused about the utter lack of a death-proclaiming lightshow as Hael and Castiel, who was peeking up from behind the bed, were.  
“What the hell…”, the guy managed, and Hael grabbed the blade’s handle and pulled it out. She made a gesture as if to finally summon up her own blade. There was a “fwoosh”-like sound, as she summoned up a blade indeed. Again, everyone stared at the others bewildered. As the fire detector sprang to life, the guy made a run for it.

“Anything?” Dean asked, as Sam came trotting down the stairs. Sam shook his head.  
“Nothing,” he said, combing fingers through his hair, sorting his thoughts. “The most magical thing I found is an Ankh-amulet, but they probably got that in some random jewellery store or at the carnival or something.”  
“So nothing to explain what’s going on?”, said Dean, standing up from looking at the lower shelves in the living room.  
“Not if you haven’t found anything.”  
Dean shook his head. “Oddest thing on this end is a lot of german books.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yeah,” he pointing over his shoulder. “Did you know that they had a 50 shades thing in german before 50 shades was even written?”  
This earned him a long, cool look from Sam, who was obviously torn between the questions ‘How would you know’ and ‘you can read german’.  
He settled for “Oh-kay…” however.  
“What?”, Dean quirked a brow, and dusted off his clothes.  
“Nothing,”, said Sam, “What now?”  
Dean gave a theatrical shrug.  
“Beats me,” he looked at his brother for a moment, “Think there might not be anything weird this time?”  
“You mean it’s really just a streak of horrible coincidences?”  
They stared at each other, unimpressed.  
“Naw,” the answer came in unison.  
“But what is it then?”, asked Dean, burrowing his hands in his pockets, resigning.  
“Cursed objects?”  
“Possible. But that’d mean we’d have to wait till they’re back, so we can ask what they bought the last few months.” Dean made a face. “No, scratch that. Cursed object would mean everyone that died touched it.”  
The two looked at their hands, making faces.  
“You’re sure?”, Sam asked.  
“Yeah,” Dean answered, failing gloriously to sound convincing.  
“Should we… have another look around? See if we can find anything all of them might have touched?”  
Dean nodded, and they headed off again.

“I am out of ideas then,” Castiel admitted, looking out of the window. He and Hael had decided to leave the hotel for the next town after what had happened. They had decided to stick together, and somehow see if they can manage to ward Castiel off against the other angels.  
That decision had come quick. What has been bothering them much more was the reason they, taking everything into account, were still alive.  
“I’m just saying,”, Hael said, looking at the street ahead, “it felt oddly right. Looking back at everything, it felt more right than anything else i have ever done.”  
Castiel sighed, but there was hope in that sigh.  
“I understand what you mean,” he said. He had felt the same, occasionally. Even more so since last Tuesday.

Around sunrise, Sam and Dean were back at the motel, still discussing the outcome of their search.  
“This is stupid,” Dean rubbed his head, feeling a headache grow. “There has to be something.”  
“We’re pretty much out of possibilities,” said Sam, typing away on the laptop.  
“I’m not buying for a second that all this is just bad luck,” grunted Dean and laid down on the bed, arms crossed behind his head and staring at the ceiling as if it knew the answer but stubbornly refused to tell him anything.  
“Me neither. But we have found nothing. No hex bags, no cursed objects,” Sam sighed, “Not even any record of the house having been the site of anything unusual.”  
“So, we don’t know anything more than when we started?”  
Sam shrugged, defeated.  
“I’ll go and see if I can find any clues in the family history.”  
Dean frowned and closed his eyes for a second.  
“Dean!”  
Dean almost fell off the bed as his brother called him.  
“I’m awake,” he managed, looking around slightly bewildered.  
“I know, but you’ve been out for two hours.”  
In response, Dean frowned, sitting up straight.  
“Found anything worth waking me?”, he frowned, rubbing his eyes, and yawned.  
“You won’t believe this,” Sam said with a smile, leaning onto the table. “Okay, so, I did some research on the family’s history. Just checking if there’s anything odd, anything we overlooked. Any clue to what we’re dealing with. Nothing unusual on Mr Willows’ side, but Mrs Willows is a complete different case.”  
“Meaning?”  
“All that german stuff we found?”  
“Yeah?”  
“I thought there might a be a connection to the german speaking minorities here, and I was right. Mrs Willows’ family came here in the 19th century.”  
“From Germany?”  
“And Transylvania.”  
“You’re shitting me.”  
Sam shook his head.  
“Transylvanian saxons,” he said. “Well, her dad’s side. Her mom’s side’s from Hanover.”  
“Sam, that’s a nice bit of history, but not helpful. ‘Cause we’re sure as hell not dealing with a vampire here.”  
Sam’s grinned.  
“What if we are?”


	10. Chapter 9

Dean gave his brother a long, empty look.  
“Uh, Sam, you do know that we have already dealt with vampires? And those bitches are nothing like this?”  
“But Nachzehrer are.”  
“Nach-what?”  
Sam held the journal under Dean’s nose.  
“Those.”  
Dean read.  
The entry was short, but to the point. Nachzehrer were a form of vampires. Never leaving their coffin, but instead chewing, sucking and biting on everything that came remotely close to their mouth. Through that, they sucked away strenght and life from their victims, until they died, seemingly weakened by sickness. The way to kill a Nachzehrer was simple. Dig up the coffin, place a coin in the thing’s mouth, chop off the head, and place it between its legs.  
“So,” Dean said after finishing the entry, “We’re dealing with some lazy ass vampires?”  
Sam nodded.  
“When I saw where Mrs Willows’ family’s from, I remembered that entry. Then I did some more research on them, and woke you up.”  
Sam thought it would not be necessary to mention that said research consisted mostly of trying to figure out how the name was pronounced.  
“Soooo…”, Dean finally said, letting everything sink in, “Someone in the family died and turned lazy ass vampire with a nailbiting problem.”  
“Yes.”  
Eyebrow quirked, still looking in the process of waking up, Dean tilted his head at Sam.  
“And who do you think?” he asked.  
Sam shrugged.  
“That’s easy. Her mom. Dies, gets stuck on Earth, sees how her husband marries again, gets angry, turns Nachzehrer.”  
Dean nodded, looking satisfied.  
“Yeah, I think we got it. So, where’s she buried?”  
“Woodlawn Cemetery, just down the road.”  
“Woodlawn, huh? Okay, that one sounds familiar.” Dean blinked a little bemused.  
“I think Bobby had a job to do there once.”  
“That might be it.”  
“Though that might have been another Woodland Cemetery.”  
Dean shrugged. “The important thing is this: we go there,” he paused as Sam frowned at him. “What?”  
“Dean, it’s Sunday,” Sam checked his watch, “6.13 am. Won’t do any good digging up graves on a Sunday.”  
“We’ve done worse,” Dean protested. “And a whole family’s safety’s at stake.”  
“I know, but this isn’t some out of town, no-one-will-notice cemetery. If someone sees us and we get arrested the Willows won’t have any chance.”  
“I hate it when you play the voice of reason,” Dean huffed; Sam huffed back, and Dean sighed. “Okay, we go there once it’s dark, get things done, go home,” he paused again, remembering something, “Well, go to Forestburgh. Get an explanation from Victor and see what he and Kevin can do with the tablets.”  
“There’s a plan.”  
“I drive, you sleep. You look as bad as you did last Monday…I think”, Dean grinned, “Probably why you’re playing the sensible one again.”

“What do you mean ‘You don’t know’?” Abaddon furrowed her brows, looking annoyed and bewildered at the low-ranked demon she was talking to.  
“There’s none of us with hounds that size,” the demon, currently possessing the body of an old man who had probably died years ago already. “Even Crowley’s are just like this,” he gestured, “and’s he’s the king.”  
“He’s a salesman,” Abbadon snarled.  
The other demon shrugged.  
“He’s sort of responsible for Lucifer’s demise, so, there’s a point in giving him that place.”  
Abaddon glared again, lunged forward and grabbed the demon’s collar.  
“A low-blow salesman on the throne. I have seen where that brought Hell.”  
The other demon gulped, obviously fearing for his existence.  
“Find out whose hound that was,” Abaddon snarled again, letting him go. “And then go to Hell. And tell them I’m coming.”

“That’s just great,” Dean frowned, looking as if he wanted to strangle someone.  
They had been waiting the entire day to go to the cemetery. They had looked for every bit of additional information about Nachzehrer and the grave they needed to dig up. They had brought the coin and an axe. They had everything they needed.  
Except a corpse.  
“How can there be so much information about someone, but NOT that they’ve been cremated?”, Dean groaned and flailed his arms, obviously very unhappy with the general situation.  
Sam just shrugged, leaning on the shovel resignedly.  
“What now?” He finally asked, watching Dean for a moment.  
“I don’t know,” Dean frowned. “We’re running from one dead end into the other. First the hex bags, then that… what was he again? Step-cousin?”  
“I think so.”  
“Yeah, that guy and now…”, inspiration hit Dean, though it was probably more of a kick to the groin. “Hold on a second.” He looked at Sam.  
“What?”  
“It’s a stupid idea, but… that step-aunt woman of Mrs Willows’...”  
“Yeah?”  
“She’s not buried here too, is she?”  
Sam squinted at his brother.  
“How should I know,” he said, fumbling for his phone, “What are you thinking about?”  
“It’s just an idea.”  
“You think she turned…?”  
“We can’t be wrong about that whole Nachzehrer thing as well, now can we?”  
“We might be.”  
“Oh, c’mon, Sam, we’ve never been wrong that often in a row.”  
“Just like we've never ran into monsters that weren't out to kill anyone?”  
Dean frowned again and shrugged.  
“I know, I know, that was weird enough. But damn it, Sammy, we’re the Winchesters, we don’t make these mistakes.”  
Sam nodded, turning his attention to his phone.  
“What you doing?”, Dean asked, craning his neck.  
“Checking if that step-aunt’s buried here,” Sam answered. “I mean, the only person we could ask right now is that guy that broke into the Willows’ house. And I don’t think he’s going to tell us. Susanna Bagley, right?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Let’s see… No… no… There we go.”  
“Good news?”  
“Yeah. She’s buried here too. We’re lucky.”  
“What are we waiting for then?”

Mrs Bagley’s grave was situated as far away from where they had buried her sister’s ashes as was possible without leaving the cemetery.  
“At least this looks like there’s a coffin down there,” Dean stated and started digging.  
Sam stood still for a moment, lost in thoughts.  
“Are you going to help, Sammy, or just stand there letting your glorious mane flow in the nightly breeze?”  
Frowning, Sam started digging as well, looking at Dean again after a moment.  
“If she really turned, that’d be really messed up.”  
Dean pondered for a moment.  
“You mean cause she doesn’t have links back to Germany?”  
“Yeah. It’s several levels of fucked-up having someone turn into a creature from a foreign culture to harass a family out of racism.”  
“That’d actually be more than several levels of fucked-up.”  
“That’s what I’m saying.”  
Shovel after shovel of dirt landed on the ground next to the grave, till Sam suddenly stopped, raising his hand to have his brother follow the motion.  
“Dean, did you hear that?”  
“Hear what?”  
“Hold still,” Sam shifted his weight a little, which the ground beneath him answered with a nasty cracking and creaking sound. Followed closely by an equally nasty slurping.  
Sam and Dean looked at each other, obviously having the same thought, scrambling out of the grave just in time before the coffin’s lid gave in.  
Only to realise that the lid, although it had been scraped and scratched thin, did not give in, but out, as the thing that had been inside pulled itself out of the grave.  
“Oh fuck, are you ugly”, Dean mumbled, drawing a face at the creature hissing at him. It certainly had once been human, but what it was now looked as if someone had tried to dissolve it in acid only to find the thing widely immune to it. The dress the corpse was wearing hung down its frame in rags, and the hair was a similar mess. Even after all this time, there was skin and tissue here and there, and everything had a gnawed on look to it. Probably the result of the corpse actually gnawing and biting and chewing on whatever it could chew on.  
Despite obviously lacking muscle or anything else needed to move, it was astonishingly quick, and leaped at Dean, who managed to duck away at the very last moment. At least enough to avoid the creature gnawing off his face. It did get his leg, however, causing an agonised, although more surprised yelp as it dug its teeth into his lower calf.  
The yelp, however, was followed closely by a bang, as Sam swung his shovel against the thing’s head. The head, lacking tissue to properly attach it to the rest of the body, flew off, landing hissing and snarling a few feet away.  
The body collapsed, and after making sure Dean was remotely alright, Sam ran over to the severed head, putting his foot onto it.  
While he fumbled his pockets for a coin, Dean shoved the rest of the corpse back into the grave, grimacing, pained and annoyed the whole time.  
“Stop biting,” Sam frowned at the head, having to use more of his limbs than should be necessary to maneuver the coin into its mouth. The moment he managed that, however, the head became still, and Dean came hopping over, handing him a roll of duct tape.  
“Duct tape, Dean, really?”, Sam raised a brow, head (not his own) in his hands.  
“Bitch bit me, bitch gets duct taped,” he paused. “Okay, that was a creepy statement. She still bit me.”  
Moments later, after placing the secured head back in the coffin, Sam was filling the grave up again, while Dean sat nearby, inspecting the wound in the light of his flashlight.  
“You gonna be alright?”, Sam finally called, little concerned.  
“Yeah, gonna wash it out with holy water. Man, that bitch had a toothpaste commercial bite.”  
“Does that surprise you?”  
“Not really. Have you seen the thing and the coffin? Makes you wonder who else she killed before we came along.”  
“Good thing we did then, even if it wasn’t planned.”  
“Yeah. As for plans: Next stop Forestburgh?”  
“Yeah.”

It was some hours later, a bit after sunrise, at a small gas station, when Dean sat in the open car, checking the bite from last night. He held a bottle of holy water in his hand, a bottle of disinfectant on the ground before him, making faces as he prodded at the wound.  
“If you keep poking it like that, you will get a plain ass infection instead,” Sam commented, checking the road map in the driver’s seat.  
Dean huffed and bandaged the wound again.  
“I think we can nominate this one for most weird-ass case we ever had,” he said, turning around to look at Sam.  
Sam nodded, not hiding that that title did amuse him.  
“And that’s coming from us,” he grinned, tracing the roads on the map.  
“Hey, it can’t get any weirder.”  
That moment, a young man approached.  
“Excuse me”, he said, drawing both Winchester’s attention.  
“Yeah?” said Dean, a bit bemused.  
“You are Sam and Dean Winchester, right?”  
“Yeah?”, both brothers said in unison, not really having a good idea where this was going. It was early morning and they were in the middle of nowhere, after all.  
“Umm…” the young man hesitated, shuffling awkwardly, before looking at the two again. “How can I get you two to not kill me?”, he asked, as his eyes flashed black.


End file.
